Jocelyn's stomach growled. She could not remember the last time they had eaten. Was it really a day ago, in the market? Does whiskey count as sustenance?
She glanced around the group, in disbelief of the fresh faces. If only she felt have as refreshed as they looked. The stickiness and stink of her body was not something she was unused to, but it was never a pleasant state. A whiff of something possibly appetizing reached her nose. At that moment, Jocelyn was almost grateful to be on that ship with her underslept, overworked, and unbathed companions.
It was unusual for Jocelyn to get fired up about food. Being arrested by the Waltzers had prevented payment for her last job, and that meant sure starvation. Since then, she had used the last of her water tokens on a single square meal in the last week. But overall, the fare had been unvaried and sparse. Not that the salty food of Skerrit's yacht was much of an improvement on her thus far unmet dietary needs. At least it smelled like it would taste okay.
Jack, Valencia, and Captain Skerrit were in deep discussion at the other end of the table. From the hand gestures and tones accompanying their conversation, Jocelyn guessed they were bartering. She also did not care. The food was too long being laid out.
Some members of Skerrit's close yacht staff finally began spreading out a ship-worthy feast. Nuts, salted proteins, dried fruits, compressed meal rations, and other well-preserved cuisine filled the chapped and worn wood table. No one offered them plates or utensils. Just as Jocelyn began reaching for a slice of dried apple in a bowl set before her, a sailor-appointed-server laid a plate of freshly filleted and fried fish under her reaching arm. She was disappointed in her senses: There must have been a cooking station somewhere aft.The smell should have tipped her off long before seeing the proof. Her training must resume soon.
She picked up a leathery dried apple and put half in her mouth, when a movement at the other end of the table caught her attention. Jack was motioning to her. Captain Skerrit demurely looked over the rim of his raised cup in her direction, an amused look on his face. Valencia had her sharp eyes on Skerrit's face.
Savagely, Jocelyn tore the apple slice in half, all teeth. She nodded indulgently in their direction, raising the other half in a mock toast. She tossed it in her mouth without finishing the first bite, chewed once, and swallowed.
Captain Skerrit raised an eyebrow. He turned back to Valencia without a word. The group at the end of the table closed on her again.
Jocelyn decided to attempt to reconnect with the companions on her end of the table. To her left, Parker was gnawing at some peppered beef jerky. Shaking her head, Jocelyn began, "Where did they-"
"They're pirates," Parker shrugged heavily.
The apples had been surprisingly good. Jocelyn expected the mealy, ancient and dusty flavor common to the rations in the markets to prevail here, as well. These were sweet, soft and pliable in a pleasing way. Jocelyn was surprised and please at her sophisticated palate. She wondered if all of the Fleet ate this well, as Captain Skerrit had intimated, or if the best was saved for his yacht. Maybe whatever they were working out at the end of the table wouldn't be so bad.
She reached for the jerky, next. Chewy; tender, even. The meat came apart in easy tears and chunks, salty-sweet. Jocelyn closed her eyes in appreciation of the sharpness of a pepper rind on the saccharine glaze of the savory dehydrated beef. Nelson had begun reaching from Jocelyn's right, into the plate of fish just before her. His poncho kept flapping slightly into her face in the breeze. She sat back in her chair and looked towards the harbor.
The relative peace of the boat had almost caused her to forget the chaos they had left the dock in. It burned, still. The first mate of the Dennis Sullivan and its captain were still missing. Probably dead.
She absent-mindedly surveyed the filled table before her. They must be miles out from the harbor. Too far to hear any commotion, but the blaze of old wood moorings piled up into the sky in so much black and orange. The calm of Captain Skerrit should have put her on her guard. His compound was probably being raided by Waltzers as she ate. He would need all the help he could get in the coming days of war. Planning like that would take days. She decided to set herself firmly to the task of eating up, with a note to take in as much rest as she could in the coming preparations.
The fish was good. Jocelyn had never eaten fish before. The canned relics of her grandparents' day had been eaten or hoarded decades ago: Fish today had to be eaten fresh, and almost burnt to a crisp, at the peril of those that attempted it. She was pleased it did not taste the way Milwaukee smelled in the late summer, when the lake breezes failed to cool the stagnant city, and carried the final revenge of aquatic carrion. As she swallowed the first bite, she thought of Lake Michigan's sullied waters, and nearly gagged it back up. But the Fleet must eat plenty of fish, and they were one of the strongest, healthiest, and largest forces remaining in the area. At least, they had been.
Some of the nuts were varieties she had never tasted, but they were well-salted and savory. She did not touch the rations, or potato dishes. Seeing all this food, it seemed those were the only things she had ever eaten before this day.
A sailor cleared the picked-at fish, and brought out the final course: an unlabeled can. He made great show and ceremony of opening the old, dented thing with his knife, and pouring the gelatinous contents onto a wooden dish. Jocelyn could barely believe her nose. In fact, she would not have, had the thing not been sitting right in front of her. Cranberry sauce.
Emotion rose in Jocelyn. Emotion and memories. It was not sadness, though perhaps that should have been there. It was gratitude. Gratitude to the Fleet, for taking her in after years alone in the world, and gratitude for the chance to fight against the thing that had so disrupted her childhood. Jocelyn regretted nothing about her life, but she had been waiting for the chance to strike against her parents' murderers for over a decade. They had died well fighting the Waltzers, and, if she was lucky, she would be able to make more than a few strikes against Crawley's forces before her own short life came to an end.
Jocelyn grabbed a serving spoon from a dish nearby, and reached for the plate. Then Jack was at her back, an infuriating hand on her shoulder. Parker and Nelson had already risen.
"Come on, we're ready to go," Jack grinned ingratiatingly at her.
Jocelyn turned her head to look up at him and blinked, her arm still extended, "Go where?"
She glanced around the group, in disbelief of the fresh faces. If only she felt have as refreshed as they looked. The stickiness and stink of her body was not something she was unused to, but it was never a pleasant state. A whiff of something possibly appetizing reached her nose. At that moment, Jocelyn was almost grateful to be on that ship with her underslept, overworked, and unbathed companions.
It was unusual for Jocelyn to get fired up about food. Being arrested by the Waltzers had prevented payment for her last job, and that meant sure starvation. Since then, she had used the last of her water tokens on a single square meal in the last week. But overall, the fare had been unvaried and sparse. Not that the salty food of Skerrit's yacht was much of an improvement on her thus far unmet dietary needs. At least it smelled like it would taste okay.
Jack, Valencia, and Captain Skerrit were in deep discussion at the other end of the table. From the hand gestures and tones accompanying their conversation, Jocelyn guessed they were bartering. She also did not care. The food was too long being laid out.
She picked up a leathery dried apple and put half in her mouth, when a movement at the other end of the table caught her attention. Jack was motioning to her. Captain Skerrit demurely looked over the rim of his raised cup in her direction, an amused look on his face. Valencia had her sharp eyes on Skerrit's face.
Savagely, Jocelyn tore the apple slice in half, all teeth. She nodded indulgently in their direction, raising the other half in a mock toast. She tossed it in her mouth without finishing the first bite, chewed once, and swallowed.
Captain Skerrit raised an eyebrow. He turned back to Valencia without a word. The group at the end of the table closed on her again.
Jocelyn decided to attempt to reconnect with the companions on her end of the table. To her left, Parker was gnawing at some peppered beef jerky. Shaking her head, Jocelyn began, "Where did they-"
"They're pirates," Parker shrugged heavily.
The apples had been surprisingly good. Jocelyn expected the mealy, ancient and dusty flavor common to the rations in the markets to prevail here, as well. These were sweet, soft and pliable in a pleasing way. Jocelyn was surprised and please at her sophisticated palate. She wondered if all of the Fleet ate this well, as Captain Skerrit had intimated, or if the best was saved for his yacht. Maybe whatever they were working out at the end of the table wouldn't be so bad.
She reached for the jerky, next. Chewy; tender, even. The meat came apart in easy tears and chunks, salty-sweet. Jocelyn closed her eyes in appreciation of the sharpness of a pepper rind on the saccharine glaze of the savory dehydrated beef. Nelson had begun reaching from Jocelyn's right, into the plate of fish just before her. His poncho kept flapping slightly into her face in the breeze. She sat back in her chair and looked towards the harbor.
The relative peace of the boat had almost caused her to forget the chaos they had left the dock in. It burned, still. The first mate of the Dennis Sullivan and its captain were still missing. Probably dead.
She absent-mindedly surveyed the filled table before her. They must be miles out from the harbor. Too far to hear any commotion, but the blaze of old wood moorings piled up into the sky in so much black and orange. The calm of Captain Skerrit should have put her on her guard. His compound was probably being raided by Waltzers as she ate. He would need all the help he could get in the coming days of war. Planning like that would take days. She decided to set herself firmly to the task of eating up, with a note to take in as much rest as she could in the coming preparations.
The fish was good. Jocelyn had never eaten fish before. The canned relics of her grandparents' day had been eaten or hoarded decades ago: Fish today had to be eaten fresh, and almost burnt to a crisp, at the peril of those that attempted it. She was pleased it did not taste the way Milwaukee smelled in the late summer, when the lake breezes failed to cool the stagnant city, and carried the final revenge of aquatic carrion. As she swallowed the first bite, she thought of Lake Michigan's sullied waters, and nearly gagged it back up. But the Fleet must eat plenty of fish, and they were one of the strongest, healthiest, and largest forces remaining in the area. At least, they had been.
Some of the nuts were varieties she had never tasted, but they were well-salted and savory. She did not touch the rations, or potato dishes. Seeing all this food, it seemed those were the only things she had ever eaten before this day.
A sailor cleared the picked-at fish, and brought out the final course: an unlabeled can. He made great show and ceremony of opening the old, dented thing with his knife, and pouring the gelatinous contents onto a wooden dish. Jocelyn could barely believe her nose. In fact, she would not have, had the thing not been sitting right in front of her. Cranberry sauce.
Emotion rose in Jocelyn. Emotion and memories. It was not sadness, though perhaps that should have been there. It was gratitude. Gratitude to the Fleet, for taking her in after years alone in the world, and gratitude for the chance to fight against the thing that had so disrupted her childhood. Jocelyn regretted nothing about her life, but she had been waiting for the chance to strike against her parents' murderers for over a decade. They had died well fighting the Waltzers, and, if she was lucky, she would be able to make more than a few strikes against Crawley's forces before her own short life came to an end.
Jocelyn grabbed a serving spoon from a dish nearby, and reached for the plate. Then Jack was at her back, an infuriating hand on her shoulder. Parker and Nelson had already risen.
"Come on, we're ready to go," Jack grinned ingratiatingly at her.
Jocelyn turned her head to look up at him and blinked, her arm still extended, "Go where?"